A brisk woman in coveralls directed two younger women as they placed potted geraniums in stands by each pew. She smiled a welcome, her prominent blue eyes friendly. “Are you with the Standish-Ellison wedding?”
I shook my head. “I’m a long-ago member of the church back in town for a visit.” I was pleased at my quick and honest response.
We discussed the floral swags and brown candles and the lovely effect when pink rose petals would be strewn in the aisle.
I pushed through the door into the main hallway. Direct and simple, that was the path to take. Soon I would have the parish directory in hand and I could obtain the information I needed. Wiggins would be proud of me.
Christmas artwork from Sunday school classes was taped to the walls of the corridor outside the parish hall: Christmas trees made of pasted strips of art paper, stained-glass windows created by pieces of colored cellophane, manger scenes, Mary cradling Baby Jesus in her arms, stars with gold glitter, red-nosed reindeer with toothy smiles and Santa Clauses with jolly smiles, bells with silver glitter.
I threw out my arms and began to sing “Silver Bells.” I couldn’t resist a sweeping dance with a curtsy here and a bow there. I reached the end of the hallway and the second stanza. Portraits of past directresses of the Altar Guild graced both sides of the corridor here.
It wasn’t pride that made me pause in front of my portrait, assuredly not. I was paying tribute instead to time past. I’d been proud to serve and felt I’d managed my terms with a minimum of acrimony, though there had been fractious moments. Hortense Maple, for example, had been very difficult to deal with over the matter of when to replace candles. Emmaline Wooster was slapdash when it came to ironing the linens. The time she’d been absorbed in an
Rapid footsteps clattered near.
I whirled around, possibly with a guilty start. It wouldn’t do for anyone to compare me to that long-ago portrait.
The steps paused. A graying pageboy framed a long worried face. The woman glanced at me uncertainly. “Excuse me, did something startle you?”
I gave her a friendly smile. “I’m looking for the church office.”
She looked reassured. “Right this way.” She hurried ahead, held the door wide. “I’m Lucy Norton.” She gestured toward a wicker chair with plump red cushions. “How may I help you?”
I looked around the familiar room, shabby and plainly furnished, but the chintz curtains at the windows were freshly ironed. As she took her place behind the desk, I settled comfortably in the chair.
The desk was neat, envelopes tidily stacked in the in and out baskets and several folders aligned with a church bulletin next to a copy of the afternoon newspaper. A church directory rested near the telephone.
“I used to live in Adelaide and was a parishioner. I’m visiting friends.” I was, after all, Keith’s friend Jerrie. “I want to pick up a copy of the parish directory so I can call old friends.”
“Call old friends,” she repeated. Her eyes fell to a story below the fold on the front page.
“You know how it is when you pack in a rush.” I invited understanding. “I didn’t bring my address book with me.”
“Are there particular families you wish to contact?” Her smile was bright, but it didn’t reach suspicious blue eyes. She folded the newspaper.
“Just old friends.” My shrug was casual. “I talked to Susan Flynn, but I didn’t want to trouble her for phone numbers.”
Her smile was swift. “Susan is a dear. I suppose she told you the sad news about the Carstairs?”
“Actually, we didn’t talk about the Carstairs.” Carstairs? That wasn’t a name I recalled.
The secretary’s eyes widened. “I would have thought that was the first thing Susan would have brought up, the dreadful accident last week.”
“We had so many old friends to remember. Now, if you don’t mind”—I glanced at my watch—“I’ll take the directory and run along.” I glanced pointedly at directories stacked on a shelf in the walnut bookcase on the near wall.
She popped to her feet. Without a glance at the bookcase, she pulled a key ring from the pocket of her yellow cardigan. She came around the desk, gestured toward the hall. “The new directories are in the supply closet. If you’ll come with me, I’ll get one for you.”
I gestured toward the bookcase. “I don’t need the most recent edition.”
“Might as well be up to date.” She led the way into the hall.
I was tempted to march to the bookcase, seize a directory, and sail past her. Instead I rose and followed her.
As we walked in silence, she darted uneasy sideways glances at me.
Had I said something amiss?
Midway down the corridor, she stopped and unlocked a door. She swung it open and stood aside for me to enter. She turned on the light, revealing a long narrow storeroom. “The new directories are on the middle shelf.”
I saw the stack. Success was to be mine. I hurried forward.
The door slammed. A click. I rushed to the door and twisted the knob. Locked!
Locked doors posed no difficulty for me, but I wanted the directory. I could waft right out into the hall but I would have to open the door to take the directory and I had no key to unlock the door once I stood in the hall.
